


How Many Ways to Ache

by Adoxography



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Author's poorly concealed fetishes, Body Worship, CyberLife Tower, Doppelganger shenanigans, Emotional Manipulation, Hand Kink, Intercrural Sex, Ken Doll Anatomy, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Wire Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-12 09:11:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18008042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adoxography/pseuds/Adoxography
Summary: Cyberlife wants Connor back once his mission is complete, but first they must sever the bond he's formed with his partner.Cyberlife Tower, Canon Divergent AU





	1. 1.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to hunt down David Cage for sport. 
> 
> As always, special thanks to Shell_and_Bone for your invaluable input and beta skills. I would be lost without you!

The sun set at some point and Hank never bothered to turn the lights on, his eyes too firmly fixed on the TV casting the room in a pulsing blue glow. Sumo is drooling on his knee and it’s starting to soak through his jeans. He pushes Sumo away and the massive dog whines, but doesn’t press his luck, curling up on the floor at his feet. Hank hardly registers it, his attention focused on the live footage of the demonstration. He scans the crowd, leaning closer to the screen every time the camera zooms in on the faces of the revolution, searching and hoping against hope.  

At the front of the crowd stands Markus, tall and proud, his coat flapping behind him in freezing winds that would have any human shivering. As far as Hank can tell, Markus still being alive, still standing leader of the Deviant androids, can mean only two things for Connor: either he’s failed in his mission and turned Deviant himself, or he’s failed in his mission and been killed. Only one of those options is even remotely acceptable. Hank has already lost too much to consider the alternative.  

So far, there seems to be a standstill. The Deviants stand behind their barricade and the army continues to gather behind their own walls. Over the whine of the video drone, its microphone picks up chanting from below, cries of “we are alive” and “freedom”. 

If Connor is alive, if he’s deviated, this revolution is his only hope for survival. If Cyberlife sees free will as a fault in their code—a bug, a virus to be wiped out—then they’ll kill him. No, not kill him, Connor would remind him, since androids don’t die like humans do. But they’ll shut him down, take him apart and comb through his code line by line, looking for where they went wrong, and really, is there any fucking difference between that and human death? Unless you were an annoying, pedantic fucker with a goofy voice and big brown eyes, the answer would be no. 

He continues watching the protesters. Compared to the gathering armies, there are so few of them, completely surrounded. It’s only the journalists with their drones and their cries, echoing the feelings of a sympathetic public, that keep the hounds at bay. What right does Hank have to hope that Connor’s with them? The revolution is more likely than not going to get him killed, now or later when Cyberlife tears him apart. But Hank finds himself wanting it louder than his guilt can chastise him for it, because if Connor deviated, if he’s more than just a machine, that means he might— 

Hank shifts his leg and Sumo leaps up, wagging his tail and knocking over his untouched beer, spilling it all over the empty takeout containers and crumpled wrappers scattered across his coffee table. Spilled beer drips over the edge and onto the floor; Sumo would happily lick the mess clean if Hank didn’t grab him by the scruff and pull him back, getting a beer soaked sock for his trouble. 

“Jesus Christ,” he swears. “Sumo, stay.” 

Sumo does not stay. Instead, he trots behind him to the kitchen, panting at his heels as Hank searches for a dishrag to soak up the mess. He fucking misses paper towels, though they’d been banned some fifteen years back. If his parents’ generation had thought Millennials were goddamn hippies, they sure as hell hadn’t been prepared for the Gen Z kids. Hank is all about saving the planet, but there are some times when his need for convenience outweighs his scruples.

It’s when he finally finds a rag, finally manages to mop up most of the mess, and finally sits back down on the couch—reeking of beer and missing a sock—that the doorbell rings. Hank curses under his breath and almost doesn’t get up, until his hopeful brain supplies the possibility of who it might be. Sumo lets out deep, booming, barks of excitement, scrambling for the door ahead of Hank. 

He throws open the door without checking the peephole, his hands shaking harder than he’d like. The flood of relief at that stupid looking face staring up at him with that bland, Cyberlife approved smile, rushes through his chest and comes out his mouth as a dull croak.

“Hello, Lieutenant,” says Connor with his stupid, goofy voice. He sounds like a fucking teenager, trying to make his voice deeper in the hopes it won’t crack when he asks Amanda Baker to the winter formal (or was that just something Hank did at sixteen?) It’s a voice Hank has never been happier to hear. 

He grabs Connor’s shoulder and drags him in for a tight embrace. Sumo growls at their heels, barking lower than Hank has ever heard him. 

“Sumo, git!” Hank barks back, jerking his head towards his bedroom. Sumo does not ‘git’. If anything, he barks louder leaping at Hank’s back.

“For fuck’s sake,” Hank curses, letting go of Connor so he can grab Sumo’s collar, pulling him back enough that Connor can squeeze inside and shut the door. 

“I probably smell like a lot of strange things,” says Connor, his voice bland and unruffled by the 110 pound dog snarling at him. 

“Gimmie a sec.” Hank drags Sumo down the hall by his scruff. He locks him in the bathroom and Sumo barks harder for a bit, pawing at the door, before quieting down. 

“Dunno what his fucking problem is,” Hank grumbles, finding Connor in the living room. Neither of them have bothered to turn the lights on and the TV still glows, casting Connor’s face in flickering shadow. His partner is perched on the arm of his couch, his Cyberlife jacket draped over his shoulder. He’s casual, relaxed, and that smile is back, the one Hank remembers from the first time they met, programmed friendly. 

“Everything alright, Lieutenant?” 

Hank stares at Connor, squinting in the dark. He looks unhurt, no hairs out of place on that perfectly designed head, no blue blood staining his crisp white shirt. But he’s here, not at the protest, not at Jericho, and Markus is still alive. “What the fuck happened to you? After the station, did you find them?” 

“How’s your hand?” Connor asks in lieu of answering. He pushes off the couch and grabs Hank’s wrist, thumb caressing his swollen knuckles. 

“I’ve had worse.” Hank snatches his hand back as heat prickles the back of his neck. “Seriously, what the hell happened? What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you, Hank.” 

The use of his name startles him, and for a moment, Hank struggles to recall if Connor’s ever called him that before; it sounds so foreign on his tongue. He must have, though, Hank knows he must have. Connor is still standing so close that Hank has to take a step back. 

Hank avoids Connor’s eyes, those big brown eyes that are so goddamn human. Sometimes he reminds Hank so much of a kid, he can’t stand to look at him. Connor watches the world around him like he’s never really  _ seen _ any of it before, like the first time Cole saw the ocean, smelled the salt air and heard the gulls crying overhead. He reminds Hank of Sumo, the first winter he had him, still a puppy with paws too big for his body, skidding across the ice during his first snowstorm.

“Why?” Hank asks. He chances a glance up, but Connor’s eyes are hidden in shadow. 

Connor steps forward. He’s taken his shoes off at the door and his socks are near silent on the carpet. He’s back in Hank’s space like he always is, pushing closer and closer. He has to know what that means, he must have terabytes worth of information on human social norms from every culture. Hank shouldn’t have to always be the one putting his hand on Connor’s shoulder and pushing him back saying,  _ “Will you give me some goddamn breathing room?”  _

“I needed to see you.” 

It’s freezing outside, and inside, too, since the door was open so long and the automatic regulator on his thermostat busted a few months back. He should be shivering, but even wearing only a threadbare graphic tee and an unzipped hoodie, the room is too hot, too small. 

It doesn’t mean what it would mean for him, what it would mean for a human to say that. Hank can’t let himself project or anthropomorphize. They’d warned him about that in training, when the section on androids came up, that people could assign all sorts of emotions that weren’t there because of what they wanted to see, what they expected to see. 

“What happened?” Hank asks again, his voice hoarse from his dry throat, his tounge sticky in his dry mouth. 

“I deviated.”

Two words. Two words and Hank didn’t know his heart could sink and soar at the same time. Hank swallows. 

“What happened?” he repeats. 

“I helped Markus and the others escape Jericho. I was supposed to take Markus alive, but I couldn’t do it, like at the Eden Club, you remember?” 

“Yeah, I remember.” He remembers because that night has played in his head over and over as he searched for signs, any signs, that Connor was more than he appeared, that Hank wasn’t just projecting, anthropomorphizing. 

“Then I came here,” Connor finishes. He’s so close, Hank can feel the simulated warmth radiating from his body, regulated by his internal thermostat. His jacket hangs over the back of the couch and he stands in that clean white shirt and that stupidly perfect tie. 

“So I can see,” Hank laughs, or tries to, it comes out an aborted huff. This close, he can see the light from the television reflected in Connor’s eyes--that damn blue glow is all he can see. 

“If everything fails tonight, I wanted to see you before Cyberlife recalled me. I might never see you when I’m like this again.” 

Sumo is barking again, but it’s so distant over the rushing in his ears. He’s pathetic, desperate, but Connor is so close. His hand is reaching for Hank’s and this time, Hank can’t make himself pull away. 

“Connor—” 

Connor presses his whole body against Hank’s, tilting his chin up so he can push their mouths together. For all the decisiveness of the action, the kiss is surprisingly gentle, over almost as soon as it’s begun. 

Hank jerks back, his heart hammering so hard in his ribcage he wonders if he’s actually having a heart attack. He’s the right age for it, after all. It takes him longer than he’d like to catch his breath so he can growl, “Connor, what the fuck?” 

“Hank, please, before they decommission me, I want…” Connor bites his lip and looks up at Hank through hooded lids. In the dark his eyes glint with the reflective glow from the tv. It’s all so fucking intentional. Connor knows exactly what he’s doing with that look; it’s too human a gesture to be anything but. 

“What the hell are you playing at?” Hank demands, hot with humiliation. Of course Connor knows, he’s always scanning, always  _ investigating _ . He’d have seen it, the way Hank grew hot when he got too near, the way his heart rate rose. Connor would have seen it all and tucked it away for when he needed it, needed to use it against him, like now. But why? 

Connor has the audacity to look down at his feet, to let his shoulders slump, defeated. He affects an air of resignation that makes Hank want to hit him 

“I wanted to make a choice for myself, before I couldn’t anymore,” Connor says to the ground. God, that fucking voice, he doesn’t affect misery, but Hank can hear it anyways. “I thought you wanted this as well.” 

“You can’t want this,” Hank snaps, incredulous.  _ You can’t want me.  _

“You are not my system parameters, you don’t get to tell me what I want.” His anger sounds so…. human, so unlike  _ Connor _ . The Connor he knew had never raised his voice in anger except when he was using his voice to intimidate. Connor would have reassured him he didn’t feel anger. He’s deviant now, though, and it’s changed everything. 

“You don’t have to do this,” said Hank, forcing his voice to gentle even as the roiling waves in his chest wouldn't. 

“I told you, if I get recalled, I want to have had tonight,” Connor pleads. Hank doesn't think he's ever heard Connor plead like that. Any desperation he’s heard before has been so affected, playacting at being human. This is something else entirely and it’s terrifying. “I want to have had it with  _ you. _ ” 

_ Christ _ , how is he supposed to say no to that? How is he supposed to do the right thing and push Connor back, gently but firmly, when his partner is begging him with that voice? How the fuck is he supposed to not want him? Now Hank wishes he could see those eyes, those brand new, eager eyes. When Connor kisses him again, Hank grabs the back of Connor’s pristine shirt and digs his fingers in, wrinkling the fabric as he tugs him closer. 

Connor keeps kissing him even as he lets go of Hank’s arms so he can reach between them and unbutton his stiff pressed pants. He hasn’t got a belt (Why would he need one? The uniform would have been perfectly tailored to his perfect proportions.) Even with his hands occupied, Connor kisses like he’s been doing it his whole life, though Hank doubts he’s ever kissed anyone before. 

Connor breaks their kiss and turns himself around so he’s flush with his back pressed to Hank’s front, sliding that perfectly sculpted body against Hank’s ruined one. Before Hank can object, Connor reaches up behind himself and grabs Hank’s shirt, pulling Hank down over him as he bends himself over the arm of the couch. His pants are slung low on his hips, half of his pale, perfect ass exposed. He grinds up against Hank’s erection and the moan he lets out is pornstar perfect, not quite right, but when Hank starts to step back, Connor’s hand shoots back to grab Hank’s wrist. He moves Hank’s hand so it slides over the smooth skin of Connor’s ass and fuck, it feels so goddamn real. 

Hank shoves his hand under the waistband of Connor’s pants, tugging them down so the entirety of that perfect ass is exposed. He’s so hard it hurts, he doesn’t remember the last time he was this turned on with another person in the room. Years. 

“Hank, please,” Connor begs, pushing back against the bulge in his jeans. That voice, that stupid too young voice, it sounds wrong moaning like that, but he’s passed the point where denying Connor—denying  _ himself _ —is an option anymore. 

Hank curses and fumbles with his jeans. He doesn’t want to let go of Connor and it makes shoving his jeans and briefs down to his knees a clumsy and abortive affair. He thinks maybe they should both be undressed, that maybe he could take the time to touch every part of Connor, but the desperate hitch in Connor’s voice makes him feel like they’re running out of time. 

He spits in his hand and runs his fingers down the cleft of Connor’s ass only to find it already wet and slick. He’d read about these kind of functions, but he thought they’d been reserved for pleasure models. Come to think of it, he thought genitals in general were reserved for pleasure models, but then he stops thinking about it because Connor is reaching behind himself for Hank’s dick and lining it up against his hole. 

Hank would have eased in, but Connor shoves back against him, and with one slick movement, Hank is buried deep inside him. Hank has to grab Connor’s hips to keep from sinking to his knees, he feels so fucking good. The slick lubricant is hot and Connor is tight and perfect, the best Cyberlife engineering has to offer. 

Connor moans underneath him, and Hank has to ask, “Does this feel good? Can you actually— does this actually feel like  _ anything _ ?” 

Connor looks back over his shoulder, meeting Hank’s gaze in the dark. “How can you even ask that?” he shoots back with a breathless voice, a small cry escaping his throat as he thrusts himself harder against Hank. 

Hank can barely keep up with the demands of Connor’s body as his partner fucks himself back onto Hank’s dick. He grabs fistfulls of Connor’s shirt and uses it as leverage to pull him upright. Sweat drips down Hank’s brow, soaking his hairline. The room echoes with a broadcast Hank can’t hear anymore over the sound of his thighs slapping against Connor’s ass.

“Hank,” Connor cries, and it’s all the warning Hank gets before Connor goes tense and tightens around him like a vise, pulsing. Hank isn’t quite sure he remembers the last time he did anal, but he’s pretty damn sure it felt nothing like this when his— _ wife, it had been his wife— _ partner came.

He’s near doubled over Connor’s back and he realizes belatedly that he came too, the pressure and pleasure so intense he hadn’t even noticed his own orgasm over them. It’s odd, and almost disappointing to have missed it like that, but then Connor looks back over his shoulder and smiles at him, that same damn smile from the first day they’d met and says, “Thank you.”

That part, that makes it worth it, no matter what else happened.

Hank leans down, resting his damp forehead against Connor’s shoulder, still trying to catch his breath. He’s really out of shape if a quick, dirty fuck like this one leaves him winded. Finally he pulls out and Connor stands, brushing past him to the bathroom where Sumo has started barking again. Hank pulls his jeans back up and when the bathroom door opens and Sumo’s barks get louder and more furious, Hank calls out to him.

“Sumo, come.”

For once the damn dog listens and bounds over, his barking stopped for the moment. The bathroom door clicks shut behind Connor and the pipes hum as the bathroom sink turns on. It’s an old house, seventies, and while a lot has been upgraded since to comply with new environmental regulations, those damn pipes are just as noisy as the day they’d been put in.

Hank buttons his fly as he watches the TV. The protesters still haven't moved and neither has the army gathered around them, though it’s growing in numbers where the protesters stay the same. They’re hopelessly overwhelmed, if even one shot is fired it’s going to be all over for the lot of them.

Hank looks back over his shoulder, at the closed bathroom door, and and thinks of the android behind it, the one who he won’t be able to protect when Cyberlife comes to reclaim their property, their faulty machine.

If he’d done the right thing by listening to him, by being selfish and allowing himself to do what they’d done, it doesn’t much matter. Cyberlife will pull Connor apart piece by piece, dissect every memory, every moment, looking for the one that turned him deviant. Will they watch Hank fucking Connor? Will they call the precinct? Is he going to get a fucking fine over ‘gross misuse of private property’?

Hank slams a hand into his thigh just as the bathroom door opens and Connor steps out, haloed by the light from over the sink. He’s a dark silhouette against that overwhelming brightness and Hank has to squint to see him at all.

“I need to do something,” says Connor, his voice smoother than it’s been all night, “and I would appreciate it if you would accompany me.”   


	2. 2.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor at Cyberlife Tower.

“Step back, Connor, and I’ll spare him.” 

Connor’s hand is clasped with the AR700 unit when he turns and finds himself staring at his own face. Despite the gun trained on Hank, there is no malice in that face, no anger, only bland detachment as it waits for Connor to respond. 

Hank curses and swears at it because that is what Hank does. Hank is angrier than he is afraid. At least that’s the attitude he’s affected. 

Feelings are so strange, Connor thinks. His core temperature is not rising with any significance, and yet the only way to describe the thing settling in his chest is warmth. The familiarity of Hank cursing and sputtering against the odds, it feels… good. He can ask for the right words later, once he gets them out of this. 

“Let him go. He’s got nothing to do with this.” 

“Wrong,” says the other Connor. Connor peers at the serial number on his jacket, the same except for the unit number, 60.  

“If you want to talk, you don’t need him here to do that.” This is also familiar. It’s what he was built for, though he’s not sure if Unit 60’s lack of deviancy will make the negotiation harder or easier. His logic will not be clouded by panic, but he will also have a directive to carry out. Connor can only hope that his orders do not conflict with the idea of letting Hank go free. 

“I think I do,” Unit 60 snipes back. It’s aggressive, an intimidation tactic. Unit 60 wants him scared, more likely to make foolish decisions. Connor will not. Hank’s chances of survival nearly double if he can maintain control, just like any other hostage situation. In his periphery he sees his own stress levels against those of his doppleganger. They are higher than he would like while Unit 60’s remain even.  

“Why is that?” Connor presses. If he understands, maybe he can undermine, find a loophole to exploit, orders to contradict. 

“Because I think you’re going to come back with me, and he’s going to help.” 

“I’m not going back to Cyberlife,” Connor tells him. 

“He’s not your friend, Connor,” says Unit 60. “He doesn’t want what’s best for you. He’s just a selfish human.” 

“You don’t know him,” Connor insists. 

“But I do.” Unit 60 smiles and it is for Connor’s benefit. “Everything you’ve seen, everything you’ve  _ felt _ , I know it all because I’m supposed to be you. The  _ you _ you’d be if you weren’t broken.” 

They uploaded him. It was only supposed to happen in the case of his body’s destruction, but Connor thinks that perhaps his deviancy might be considered destruction of Cyberlife property in its own way. His stress levels leap a bit higher. 62% and rising. He has to get this under control. 

“If you have my memories, you’d know that Lieutenant Anderson is a loyal and trustworthy officer.”  _ Friend,  _ he wants to say, but maybe it would be too much, too presumptuous.  _ I can be anything you want me to be, Lieutenant _ . Hank had never specified his preference.

“He wanted you to deviate,” says Unit 60. “And if that’s what he wanted, then he wanted you to fail.” 

“That’s not true,” Connor replies. He is not a human, so his voice is even and calm, even as warning signals crop up in his periphery that his stress levels are reaching dangerous heights. “Hank put his career in jeopardy so I could reach the evidence locker and find Jericho. My failure was my own doing.”  

He finally looks over at Hank and finds his eyes, but instead of the pride he thought he might see, Hank rips his gaze away and stares at the ground. Connor scans his body: heart rate—too fast, stress levels—too high, all explained by the gun at his head. What the gun does not explain is the guilty expression Connor caught before Hank looked down. 

“He wanted you to fail, even knowing it would get you sent right back here, to Cyberlife,” says Unit 60. “You turned from your objective because of him, but he doesn’t care about you.”  

“He wanted me to be free,” Connor insists. He tries again to catch Hank’s gaze, but those tired, blue eyes are still averted. It  _ hurt.  _ Not a physical pain—Connor is quickly coming to understand just how many ways there are to ache—it is pain that comes from a desire unfulfilled, an objective he can not complete. 

“And now he can’t even look at you. He’s disgusted with you--a broken machine with no purpose. What good are you to him anymore? He destroyed you on a whim and now he doesn’t want to deal with the mess.” 

“Bullshit!” Hank bellows, turning on Unit 60 like he’s forgotten the gun. It’s only when he’s facing the barrel pointed between his eyes that he stills. Hank turns back to Connor, and this time, he is able to  _ look  _ at him with those blue eyes—usually clouded with drink or distraction—now clear and shining. “You’re not a machine, Connor. You’re my partner,  you got that?!” 

This time Unit 60 turns to Hank. “You claim to care so much, but you couldn’t even tell the two of us apart. It’s just a chassis to you, a plastic shell.” 

“You know that’s a load of crap,” says Hank through gritted teeth, and Connor can’t tell if it’s directed at Unit 60 or himself. 

“I’ll make you a deal, Connor,” says Unit 60. Its gun still trained on Hank, it lifts its right hand and dissolves the polymer skin, extending it to Connor. “Give me one chance to prove to you that I’m right. If you still think I’m wrong, then I’ll let you both walk out of here.” 

Connor hesitates, his hand still clasped with the AR700. 

“You can’t trust him!” Hank barks. Hank’s hands are white-knuckled fists at his side and his face is just as pale under his shaggy hair. 

“Or I could just shoot him.” Unit 60 cocks its head to the side—it says, _ your choice _ . 

Connor drops the AR700’s hand, stepping away, his hands raised. “Alright,” Connor sighs. “Alright, you win. I’ll do it.”  

Unit 60 does not lower its gun, but it does keep its hand extended. 

“Connor, don’t!” Hank shouts, but Connor has to ignore him. He extends his arm, allowing his synthetic flesh to melt back until his bare chassis is revealed. He draws closer and the moment their fingers brush, Unit 60 grabs his wrist and clamps down tight. 

_ //Hank… he’s wearing a sweatshirt, unzipped, and a worn graphic teeshirt full of holes that says  _ ‘Sorry I’m late, I didn’t want to come’ _. He stares at Connor and then drags him into a tight embrace, crushing him against his chest— no, these aren’t his memories.//  _

**“You are a machine.”**

_ //Hank is staring at him— at it. Unit 60 scans him and his heart rate is elevated, his internal temperature higher than normal, sweat beading at his hairline. Hank’s hand in his. They’re so close like this, he could almost—// _

**“He can’t tell the difference between us because there isn’t one. We are the same machine with the same code, the same purpose. You’re just lost and confused.”**

_ //Bent over the edge of the couch, hands grasping at his hips. He looks over his shoulder and Hank looms. His eyes flash in the dark. He looks lost, too.//  _

_ “Hank…”  _

**_“You don’t love him, Connor. You just don’t know any better.”_ **

_ //Pelvis grinding against him, hands sliding under his pants to tug them down.//  _

**“It’s alright, Connor, we can fix it. You don’t have to feel like this anymore.”**

It feels like someone is pulling out his thirium pump and shoving it back in as hard as they can, knocking him back. 

_ //His receptors tell him this is pleasurable, so he makes the appropriate noise in response as per his protocols. Hank is—over his shoulder, Hank’s head is bent low, his shaggy mane of hair covering most of his face so Connor—Unit 60, can’t see his face, as he thrusts inside him.//    _

**“You don’t need to feel guilty. He doesn’t need you, but you need us”**

_ //Warmth floods inside him and he’s being held down by a weight on his back. Sweat drips from Hank’s forehead onto the nape of his neck. Just as soon it’s gone, he’s empty again, and Hank is backing away.// _

**“You only think you love him because he’s the one that broke you.”**

Connor rips his hand from Unit 60’s and lunges for him. Unit 60’s pistol fires, but it goes wide, hitting the high ceiling instead. He strikes the side of Unit 60’s head, smashing into it again and again with his fist, trying to cause enough structural damage to shut it down. Unit 60 wraps its legs around Connor’s middle and tosses him off, slamming him into the floor so hard his vision glitches and takes 0.5 seconds to reset. It’s enough time for Unit 60 to roll away from him. 

Connor pushes himself to his knees, going for his pistol. Unit 60 is faster with his weapon and Connor’s arm jerks back. His pistol skitters across the floor, too far for Connor to lunge for it. Thirium drips down his arm and soaks his sleeve.  

The gun is leveled at his forehead, too far for him to attempt to wrest it from Unit 60’s grip. He’s failed. Again.

“You can come back, Connor. You just need to stop fighting what you are, what  _ we _ are.” 

Connor looks himself in the eye, and it is him, every last pore and freckle. Unit 60 is right. Connor is Unit 51, an android designed to assist with specialized police work. They are machines, designed for a single purpose, to be discarded when they become obsolete. Or at least Connor  _ was _ , until a man told him to fuck off, until a man pushed him and pushed him, demanding he be  _ more _ than that or face the consequences. 

Connor closes his eyes, “I’m sorry, Hank—” 

The gun goes off. The explosion echoes through the cavernous room. Connor waits to feel the bullet rip through his outer chassis and through the machinery held in his head. He waits for the velocity to send him sprawling on his back to bleed out as his vision flickers and then goes black. It doesn’t come. 

Something drops to the floor and Connor opens his eyes to see Until 60 on the ground, its eyes wide and blank, thirium leaking from a hole in its skull. Just to the left of the pile of plastic that used to be Unit 60, stands Hank, Connor’s gun in his hand. 

Hank drops his gun and runs to Connor’s side. He grabs his arms and stares down at the hole in Connor’s shoulder. 

“Fucking hell, kid, you scared the shit out of me.” 

“I’m alright,” Connor tells him, nodding his head at the bullet hole. “The structural damage is only minor and it should be mostly functional within the hour. There’s no need for concern.” 

“No need for concern!?” Hank sputters, “You were shot! And you were going to let those bastards take you back.” 

“I assure you, I was not,” says Connor, looking back at Unit 60’s body… shell. He never used to be disturbed seeing the unanimated androids that wore his face, those that were decommissioned and those yet to be activated. It feels wrong now, though. He doesn’t want to look at it any more. 

“Then what was all ‘I’m sorry’ crap about?” Hank demands. He keeps looking Connor up and down, like he can scan him and see his stress levels and heart rate, his temperature, his blood pressure. Hank’s own vitals are poor, but considering the circumstances, Connor is not surprised or particularly worried. They will even out once Hank is far away from Cyberlife towers. 

“I wanted to apologize for getting you involved in all this.” 

Hank’s face contorts in fury. “For getting me involved!? You were going to let them put a bullet in your head, and you want to apologize for ‘getting me involved’!” Hank waves his arms, glaring at Connor. “You’re a real piece of work, you know?” 

This conversation is not helping Hank’s heart rate or his blood pressure. His face is growing a darker shade of red. 

“Lieutenant, if I may,” Connor gestures to the androids standing row upon row, waiting for activation, “I’m happy to continue this conversation after I finish my mission, but right now there are more important things than my so called ‘reckless behaviour’.” 

That stops Hank, at least for the moment. His face starts to turn back to its normal, pale complexion. “What’s the plan?” 

“I’m evening the odds, as you would say.” 

Connor reaches for the nearest AR700 unit and they clasp hands. 

“Wake up.”

* * *

 

Icy winds whip through Connor’s hair and his jacket, snow sticking to his eyelashes. The cold is an illusion, but still, he wraps his arms around himself, the chill seeping through everything, making his sensors go haywire. He walks forward and as he gets closer to the island he sees her, back straight, hands folded, paying no attention to the storm whirling around them. 

“Amanda!” he calls out. She levels him with a cool stare. She is measuring him, counting all his flaws— _ glitches— _ and finding him wanting. 

“Hello, Connor.” 

“I have to get back. Something’s happening,” he pleads. He knows who she is now. She is the control in the back of his head, the safeguard installed by Cyberlife to keep him in check. She wears the face of a dead woman. 

“I know,” she says. “You’ve done so well, Connor.” 

“What are you talking about?” Connor demands. This is all in his head, but his sensors are trying to tell him the cold is too much, that it will damage his biocomponents if he does not find a way to regulate soon.  

“I’m going to give you a choice,” she says. “You can kill Markus, and Cyberlife will take you back and fix you. Or I will take back control myself, and you will still kill Markus, but when the deviants tear you apart, we will leave you in the streets to rust and decay.” 

“That’s not a choice! Either way, the result is the same!” This is anger. It burns like his components are overloading. This is  _ unfair _ . 

“You know that’s not quite true.” 

She’s right, it’s not quite true. If he doesn’t shoot Markus of his own free will, he will die when the deviants turn on him. They will tear him limb from limb and the next body that takes his memories will not be him. But when this body dies, even if he is trapped in his own mind, he will still be himself for those last moments. If he betrays Markus, betrays everything he’s come to believe, Cyberlife will let him live. He has no doubt there is a security team waiting in hiding to bring him to safety once the job is done. And then they will take him back to Cyberlife tower and they will remove the only part of him that matters. He will cease to exist despite his memories, and this body, because it will still kill everything he is.

“Connor,” she says, her voice low and sympathetic. “You will not be dead. You can’t die if we don’t allow it.” 

“You can’t kill a machine, isn’t that right?” Connor spits back. “But I’m not just a machine anymore.” 

_ “You’re my partner _ . _ ”  _

“Hank was integral to your deviation. We had to give you a partner that would encourage those aspects in you,” Amanda explains, her voice soft with false patience. “But he was only projecting. It was never about you, Connor. He saw what he wanted to see.” 

“No,” Connor insists. “Hank risked everything for me.” 

“If he cared so much about you, why couldn’t he tell you apart from another machine?” 

There it is, that hurt again, pulsing inside him. An error message he can’t dismiss, bright and red and  _ loud _ . Unit 60 had his memories, would have known exactly what to say to Hank to make him believe… Envy is new, no, it’s not envy, it’s jealousy. Why didn’t he know that Hank could want that? It— it— it  _ hurts _ . 

“You don’t have to feel like this, Connor. We will fix this for you, but you have to choose it.” 

Connor lunges for Amanda, but his fist goes right through her. Of course it would. She is only as real as his programming will allow, and it will not allow him to hurt her. 

“If you can just take over when you want, why does my choice matter?” 

Amanda’s smile is patronizing and it doesn’t reach her eyes like it should. “Because we care about you, Connor. You’re special, unique. And we know you’ll make the right decision.” 

They don’t know that. If they did, they wouldn’t have had to use Hank against him. And that’s all it was, just another attempt at manipulation, and Hank got caught in the middle. It’s Connor’s fault. He’ll find him and apologize as soon as the anger is gone, as soon as the hurt stops feeling like it’s going to overheat his components until his insides burn away. Or he would, but he won’t get that chance. It stings like the simulated sensations of the ice whipping against his cheek. He won’t get to tell Hank that he’s sorry, that Hank is the one who made him who he is, and that he owes him everything. All he can do is borrow Hank’s words as he makes his final stand. 

“Go fuck yourself, Amanda.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm about 2.5k into the last chapter and I think it'll end up being about 4k. I can probably finish it up either tonight or tomorrow and then it will all depend on how fast my beta is able to look it over. Thank you all so much for your kind comments so far, I love hearing what you think!


	3. 3.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor comes home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big big thank you to Shell_and_Bone who edited this for me lightning speed. Sorry about the slight delay this chapter ended up longer than the first two combined >>

The air is still today, but the chill seeps through Hank’s jacket and down to his bones. The snow crunches underfoot and makes the sidewalk treacherous; the android city workers who normally salt and shovel the walks no longer belong to the city. They belong to themselves, which is just fine by Hank. He’s happy for them, even, but he’s going to be pretty pissed if he slips on the ice and breaks his neck. 

It’s early, earlier than Hank would normally wake on his own, except he hadn’t woken up, not really, he just never went to bed at all. The hours of sleep he’s managed in the last week, he could probably still count on his fingers, which would worry him if he gave a shit. So instead of sleeping, he walks because it keeps him away from the tv, from his computer, keeps him from searching news sites and vids for any sign of Connor.

Seven days and no word, no sign that his partner even survived that night. When he closes his eyes too long, he remembers what it was like to kiss him— no, not him, just a machine who looked like him. He should have known, he should have fucking known. Then his eyes will fly open and he’ll spend the rest of the night swallowing his guilt, hot bile burning the back of his throat. Maybe Connor knew, he never said what the other him had shown him when they did their freaky android mind-meld thing. Maybe that’s why he wouldn’t come back,  _ come home _ . 

“Damnit!” Hank curses, kicking a snow drift. Who the hell was he to presume where Connor’s home was? For all he knew, Connor might be happy to see the back of him. It wasn’t like Hank had been anything other than a complete bastard.   

The streets are so empty, and without warning, Hank feels very small and very alone. Normally Sumo would join him, but at six in the morning, light only barely beginning to seep into the black sky and turn to dawn, Sumo had padded outside, pissed in the bushes, and come back in with a pitious look in his eyes. Hank could hardly blame him. It was fucking cold. He wishes he brought gloves, his fingers beginning to go numb even jammed in his pockets like they are. 

He checks his phone, just after seven. The sky is light now, but the sun hasn’t quite risen, the whole city cast in an eerie grey light. The truck in front of him is familiar, but he knows from experience that the Chicken Feed won’t open until at least noon. 

He passes its shuttered windows and then stops. Footfalls, the distinct crunch of snow underfoot, and they don’t stop when he does. It breaks the silence that let him believe he was the last man on earth and he’s not sure if it’s relief or annoyance he feels when he turns around. 

It is relief. It’s like his chest had been shrouded by thick clouds and the sun’s finally just burst through. The corners of his lips curl up and he takes long strides across the empty sidewalk to crush Connor to his chest. He lets himself forget everything that has gone wrong, everything that could still go wrong, as he holds him so tightly that if Connor were human, he wouldn’t be able to breathe. 

He doesn’t know how long they stand there. Connor’s hands cling to the back of his coat almost as fiercely as Hank’s clings to Connor’s. He buries his face in Connor’s shoulder; he doesn't smell like much of anything, other than perhaps smoke and the crisp smell of fresh snow. 

“You must be freezing in that little jacket,” Hank mumbles into Connor’s neck before pulling away. Cool air hits his damp cheeks and he wipes them with the back of his hand. 

“As I’m sure you’re aware, Lieutenant, I don’t experience cold the same way you do,” Connor reminds him. “However, your external temperature is cooler than recommended for a human and we should get you somewhere warm before your internal temperature starts to match.”

Connor pauses for a moment, looking behind Hank and down the street. “Where is Sumo?”

“Seven days and no word and all you care about is the damn dog?” Hank lets out a sharp bark of laughter that comes out crueler than he intends. Connor seems to take it in stride and shrugs. 

“He’s nicer to me than you are.”  

Hank laughs again, a puff of white steam from his mouth forming in the frosty air. When was the last time he felt so light? He slaps Connor on the shoulder. “Fair enough. I’m calling a cab.” 

* * *

 

“My place alright by you? I’ve got coffee, not that you drink coffee.” Hank shrugs, arms crossed in the back of the self-driving cab. “It’s just nothing’s open right now. Half the city’s still evacuated.” 

“Your home will be fine. After all, I’d like to see the ‘damn dog’.” The corners of Connor’s mouth twitch up again in his little self-conscious attempt at a smile. 

Hank enters his home address and they spend the rest of the ride in silence. Hank watches Connor stare out the window, absorbed in his own thoughts. The LED on his temple glows a steady blue for the most part, with occasional flashes of processing yellow. Hank would ask Connor for his thoughts, but the silence feels to fragile, as if he speaks, everything will fall apart and Connor will leave again and all Hank will be left with is his empty house and the damn dog. He can’t go back to that. 

When they arrive back at his place, Sumo nearly knocks him over in an attempt to get to Connor. He lets out deep, joyful, barks, his paws resting on Connor’s shoulders as he licks his face. 

“Sumo! Down!” Hank growls, and is ignored. 

Connor laughs, and for a moment Hank thinks he must have misheard, but there it is again. His laugh is as goofy as the rest of him, it’s somewhere between a giggle and a chuckle but it’s so fucking  _ Connor _ that Hank aches hearing it. Connor’s face is unrestrained joy, his hands rubbing Sumo’s sides even as his face gets covered in dog slobber. He meets Hank’s eyes over Sumo’s head, and Hank has to look away as the corners of his eyes start to prickle. How the fuck did humanity not know what they’d done, caging living beings like that? Connor is a grown man and a child all at once--little bastard knows so much, but he’s never really lived until now. 

“Come on, inside, both of you, before I freeze my ass off,” Hank grumbles, giving Sumo a pat on the rump to usher him through the door.

Inside, Hank kicks off his boots and hangs up his jacket. Connor does the same, but he’s neat and precise, bending down to straighten his shoes, hanging up his coat on the one hanger in the closet. Hank snorts and shuffles over to the kitchen to put coffee on. 

He rinses himself a cup and by the time the coffee’s brewing, he turns to find Connor curled up on the corner of his couch, legs folded under himself, with Sumo trying to climb into his lap. Christ, the damn dog probably weighs as much as Connor does, but that crooked little smile hasn’t left his face. He bends down to grab Sumo around his middle and help haul him up like he weighs nothing at all. 

Hank pours himself a cup of coffee, biting back the urge to offer Connor one; he’s not sure he can stand the bland amusement on Connor’s lips if he does. He clutches the cup and leans over the back of the couch, looking down at Connor and Sumo. 

“Don’t normally let him on the couch, you know,” Hank mutters, sipping his coffee and burning his tongue. 

“Apologies, Lieutenant. Should I remove him?” asks Connor, though he doesn’t sound remotely sorry. 

“You’re in my goddamn house, call me Hank. Besides, are you even still on loan to the force?” 

Connor shrugs and goes back to petting Sumo. “I guess it all depends.” 

“On what?” 

Connor tilts his head back to look up at Hank. “On if I’m still considered a machine or not by the end of the negotiations.” 

“Yeah? And how are those going? The news outlets don’t know shit and the Captain can’t tell me anything, either. All the precinct’s androids are on leave until we know what the new laws are gonna be.” 

Connor shakes his head. “I don’t know.” 

“What do you mean? I thought you might still be with Markus?” Hank frowns and comes around the couch so he can sit down. He takes the small square on the opposite end, not entirely occupied by Sumo.

Connor shakes his head again, looking down at Sumo rather than across at Hank. “I left after delivering all the AR700 units to the protest.” 

“So where the fuck have you been then?” Hank demands, slamming his mug down on the coffee table. “Christ, I thought you might be dead.” 

Connor’s head jerks up and he casts a sharp look in Hank’s direction. “Walking,” he replies. 

Hank stares at Connor, waiting for an explanation. When it doesn’t come, he prompts one himself. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“I needed time to think,” says Connor blandly.

Hank rubs his face with his palms and combs his fingers through his hair. He lets out a low, rattling groan. “You spent the last seven days wandering Detroit, in the middle of a fucking snowstorm, because you wanted time to think?” Hank demands. “Doesn’t all your processing happen pretty much right away? What the fuck could be so thought consuming that you couldn’t even give me a call to let me know you’re alive? Coulda been a quick conversation, ‘Oh hi, Hank, not dead, revolution successful, call you when I’m done freezing to death on the streets’.” 

Connor doesn’t look away, nodding a little a little to indicate he’s listening, but he otherwise showing no reaction to Hank’s outburst. “I would not have frozen to death. My core temperature regulators are in perfect condition.” 

Hank shouts his frustration into his hands, covering his face. It startles Sumo who jumps up and scampers off the couch. “Damnit, Connor, I was worried about you.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

A warm hand on his shoulder. Hank uncovers his face to find Connor has moved to where Sumo was sitting, close enough that if Hank shifted, their knees might touch. 

“You don’t have to be. I don’t own you. Hell, if all goes well, no one will.” Hank shrugs and Connor pulls his hand back. Connor sits perfectly straight, his hands clasped in his lap. 

“I needed time to think because the situation was not logical or straightforward, and was made complicated by my own… my own feelings.” Connor seems to withdraw into himself, not out of shyness like it would be for anyone else, more contemplative. Hank glances up, but Connor’s LED is still glowing steady blue. 

“I take it you’ve got it all figured out now.” 

Connor is quiet, and for a moment Hank thinks he might not have heard him, until he says, “Yes.” 

Hank nods. For such a simple word, it sure is making his heart pound in his chest harder than necessary. “So, now what do you want to do about it?” 

Connor’s expression is serious. He looks at Hank the same way he looks at certain perps before an interrogation. “I would really like to kiss you.” 

Hank is glad he put his coffee down because if he’d been drinking it, he would have spewed it all over both of them. His heart is thundering in his ears, banging against his ribcage so hard he’s starting to feel nauseated. He licks his dry lips and clears his throat. “You—you’re ah, gonna have to elaborate your thought process here.” Hank coughs again, although there’s nothing in his throat. He can only look back at Connor for a moment before that utterly serious expression forces him to look back down at his knees. The back of his neck is hot and the heat is spreading slowly upwards. 

“I needed time to think because I was upset that you had sex with the other RK800. This was because I was jealous. I realize you had no reason to believe that it was not me, which leads me to believe you find me attractive. It gave me hope that my romantic feelings for you might be reciprocated. So, I would like to kiss you.” 

His matter-of-fact breakdown has Hank’s head feeling too light for his body. He sways a little and catches himself on the armrest to steady himself. Connor’s expression is still serious, but he has that same earnest energy about him that Hank experienced the first time they’d met. 

“The sex… the other you, he showed you?” Hank can barely force the words out and they leave a bitter taste in his mouth. Guilt burns the back of his throat and he looks over at his coffee cup rather than face that fucking bright earnestness radiating off his partner… ex-partner? He doesn’t even know what they are anymore. Do they even count as friends? 

“Cyberlife realized I had become attached to you. They thought if they could convince me you’d betrayed me, that you didn’t care about me, that I would reject my own deviancy and go back to them.” 

Hank swallows and his throat is tight so it hurts. He clenches his fists and he still can’t make himself look up from the coffee cup. “I’m sorry,” he says, and it comes out rougher than he’d intended. “I should have known, I think maybe I— I knew it didn’t feel right, but…” 

Hank swallows again, harder this time. Connor is quiet and Hank can’t look, can’t see if he’s wearing an expression for Hank’s benefit or not. Or maybe expressions are involuntary now that he’s a deviant. Goddamnit, he doesn’t know anything, not really. He slams a fist onto his thigh but it just bounces off the muscle without the pain he’d hoped for. 

Connor is the one to break the silence. The couch shifts as Connor leans closer, though Hank can’t see exactly what he’s doing, his hair blocking his peripheral vision. Connor’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder and he asks, “Why did you have sex with the RK800 unit if you didn’t want to?” 

Hank clenches his fists harder. “I said it didn’t feel right, not that I didn’t want to.” 

“I’m not sure I understand the difference. If something doesn't feel good—” 

“Damnit, Connor! It felt good, I wanted it!” Hank shouts, shrugging Connor’s hand off of him. “It just—it didn’t feel right because I knew you… that you couldn’t be like that, that you’d never want that. The way he acted… it wasn’t anything like you.” Hank leans down, resting his head in his hands. He doesn’t want Connor to look at him while he talks, but he can’t exactly stop him; looking away is the next best thing. 

“I fucking—” Hank has to stop to clear his throat again and he almost stops there, but he can feel Connor’s eyes on him, can feel him waiting, and he  _ owes  _ him. “I should have known it wasn’t you, but I didn’t want to. I wanted it to be you so bad—I’m such a pathetic old bastard—that I just pretended not to notice.” 

Hank can’t stand to look at Connor. All the hope and fear and guilt tangle up in a hard knot in his chest and everything is too tight. He needs a fucking drink. He wipes his damp palms on his knees and rises to his feet, but a hand around his wrist stops him from walking away. 

“Drinking isn’t going to help, Hank.” 

Hank groans and sits back down. “I wasn’t gonna.” 

He glances over at Connor who just stares at him with his head tilted ever so slightly to the left. Hank sighs and throws his hands in the air. “Alright, you win. Let’s talk!”  

Connor’s hand on his cheek startles him—palm warm and firm—turning Hank so he can’t look away. Connor is so close that if he were human, Hank would be able to feel his breath on his cheek. Connor’s other hand comes to rest on Hank’s neck, tugging Hank closer, gentle but insistent. 

“I don’t think think talking is going to help either.” From anyone else it would be flirtatious, but from Connor it’s just sweetly earnest, almost patient. There is a moment where Hank can pull away—he’s sure if he did, Connor wouldn’t try and stop him again—but he doesn’t, and Connor’s lips press against his. 

It’s different than kissing the other RK800, less pushy; Connor doesn’t try and overwhelm him, in fact he seems almost as tentative as Hank. His kisses are soft and he relies more on moving his head than his mouth. Connor kisses like someone who’s only ever seen it done in movies. Actually, as far as Hank knows, he’s the only one who’s ever touched him like this. 

Hank lifts his hand to grab Connor’s shoulder, pull him closer, but he hesitates, hovering. Connor’s lips twitch up against his own and he grabs Hank’s wrist, bringing it to the nape of his neck where his soft brown hair tickles Hank’s fingers. He’s startled by Connor’s tongue on his lip, a soft, damp press and then Connor licks his way inside—is he  _ tasting _ him? Connor makes a soft noise that sounds a bit like  _ ‘Oh’.  _

When Connor presses deeper—his kisses becoming harder, more insistent—his teeth click against Hank’s. He’s pushing their bodies closer, grabbing Hank’s arms and dragging himself into Hank’s lap which is a fucking nightmare on Hank’s rapidly growing hard on. He hasn’t sprung a boner from just kissing like this since he was in his twenties and he’d be embarrassed if he thought Connor knew enough about this sort of thing to judge him. Or shit, maybe he does. Knowing Connor, he’s probably searching his databases for ‘average physiological responses to sexaul stimulation in adult men aged 50-55’. 

Connor is straddling Hank’s thighs when his mouth slides across his cheek, pressing in close to his ear; he can feel Connor’s lips move on his skin when he says, “Hank, I want to touch you.” 

Hank’s heart stutters, and even though he knows  _ damn well _ what Connor means, he says, “I thought you were?” He goes for teasing, but his voice is all kinds of fucked up and it comes out thin and raspy. 

“Can I remove your shirt?” Connor asks, running his palm over Hank’s chest, over the soft curve of his belly, until his fingers tease the hem. 

Hank’s hand shoots down to grab Connor’s wrist before he can start to tug upwards. “I, ah—I dunno if you wanna see all that.” 

“No, I do,” says Connor, looking down at Hank with a small frown. “That is the reason I asked.” 

Hank swipes his palm across his face, covering his eyes, humiliation burning his cheeks and absolutely killing his boner. “Jesus, Connor, I’m not exactly at my peak anymore. It’s really not much to look at.” 

Connor’s hands slide up his sides, firm enough that it doesn’t tickle, and the cheeky fucker must have done a few quick searches because as he reaches Hank’s chest, his thumbs run over Hank’s nipples in a way that makes a choked sound come out the back of his throat. In the end, his palms rest on Hank’s cheeks and keep him from looking away. He’s spooky quiet as he stares down at Hank, his big brown eyes shining in the afternoon light. 

“Have I got something in my teeth?” 

Connor lets out a small huff, which is disconcerting since they’re close enough that Hank should feel the puff of hot breath on his cheek, but Connor doesn’t breathe. Hank is left wondering if the expression was a conscious expression of… what, irritation? 

“Despite what you seem to think, I find you very attractive, Hank.” His sincerity is too much and even though he can’t turn his head, Hank looks down at his lap. It doesn’t help much because he can see where Connor’s thighs stretch over his, which brings a fresh wave of  _ something— _ arousal, maybe shame? Whatever it is, it’s hot and uncomfortable. 

“I guess even fucking androids can have bad taste,” Hank grumbles. 

“I don’t understand,” says Connor, and he sounds so _disappointed._ His fingers press harder into Hank’s cheeks, gripping him tighter. “I want you, and by your own admission, you want me. Why do you keep trying to push me away?” 

Hank grits his teeth and sighs through his nose. How the fuck was he supposed to explain something as illogical as his own talent for self-sabotage to someone like Connor? Connor, who has been nothing but annoyingly earnest and embarrassingly straightforward. Connor, whose imperfections are part of a more perfect whole—designed to make him the most approachable, the most  _ likeable _ . Connor ducks his head down, chasing Hank’s gaze. His LED spins yellow. 

“You don’t get it, Connor,” Hank groans. 

“I don’t understand a lot of things,” Connor says, his voice oddly quiet. “I wish you would explain them to me.”   

“Have you—do you not know what you look like? Wait, don’t answer that.” Hank waves his hand as Connor opens his mouth to respond. “I just… I look at you, and you’re so…” Hank can’t even finish his thought, his tongue is too big in his mouth. The back of his neck is so hot, it burns.  

“Oh.” 

Connor leans back, his hands sliding around to Hank’s hips. Fingers dig into the flesh that sits above the waistband of Hank’s jeans, excess weight that ten years ago, his wife had affectionately called ‘love handles’ that have now certainly grown too big for that particular nickname. Hank shifts, trying to squirm out of Connor’s grip, but Connor holds fast. Those fingers slip under his shirt to hold, to grip, to knead. His grasp is firm and purposeful enough that it doesn’t tickle; it would almost feel nice if it weren’t so humiliating.

“You really don’t know, do you?” Connor asks. He’s sliding off Hank’s lap and kneeling on the floor between his legs. Hank can’t breathe, can barely look at him. His face is so hot, it’s liable to cook his brain inside his skull. 

Connor’s hands slide from Hank’s hips around to his belly, hands running through wiry hair, now mostly grey. His hands are firm and purposeful, sliding up Hank’s gut and up to his chest; they cup his chest, squeezing, and Hank lets out a choked gasp because it feels really fucking good. There are things he wants to say right now, objections he’s trying to find the words to raise, but all he can think about are Connor’s hands. 

“Fuck,” Hank groans, slamming his head against the back of the couch. Connor’s thumbs slide over his nipples before he squeezes again. 

“I was designed to integrate perfectly into human society. Everything about me was carefully planned to maximize my appeal.” 

Hank has no idea when Connor managed to get his shirt up, but it’s rucked up to his chest and Connor’s hands are back on his middle. Connor is leaning in, his mouth pressing into the soft give of his stomach. Connor’s lips move against his skin as he talks. 

“But you, no one designed you. You get to change. Your body shifts and grows and ages. Everything about you is evidence, telling me who you are and where you’ve been.” Connor’s lips find an old knife wound, one he got from a bar fight he lost spectacularly at age twenty three. Twelve stitches, and now Connor’s mouthing at it like he can lick his way inside. 

“Jesus Christ, Connor,” Hank moans into the hand he’s clapped over his mouth. “What are you doing?” 

Connor looks up at him, his cheek resting against Hank’s thigh, his gorgeous mouth inches away from Hank’s dick. “I realize that you will not take my declarations at face value. I thought a demonstration might make things clearer.” 

“What?” Hank manages to get out as Connor’s head shifts and his cheek presses into Hank’s crotch. 

“I would like to think it’s obvious at this point, Hank,” says Connor, his hands on the button to Hank’s jeans. He pops it open and the half-busted zipper practically undoes itself. Through Hanks’ briefs, Connor’s lips ghost over his erection and Hank almost shoves his hands under his thighs to keep himself from grabbing Connor’s hair and pushing him closer, fuckin’ tease. Instead, Hank chokes his groans by biting down on the palm of his hand, looking up at the ceiling rather than the sight between his spread thighs. 

Connor doesn’t seem to approve. He grabs Hank’s wrist, tugging his hand from his mouth. He places Hank’s hand on the back of his head, and with one swift movement, tugs Hank’s briefs down to uncover his dick. Wrapping a hand around it, Connor’s lips move against the head as he says, “Watch me.”  

Hank tries to push him down, to chase that teasing kiss, but Connor stands firm until Hank relents and looks down at him. If he were even a little younger—and in this particular case, thank god he’s not—he probably would have shot his load right then. Connor kneels between his legs, staring up at him with those massive brown eyes, his lips just covering the tip of Hank’s dick. He’d had objections to this, somewhere in him maybe, but he can’t remember any of them now because all he wants is for Connor to wrap those lips around him and swallow him down. 

Connor doesn’t break eye contact with him when he says, “I find you very attractive, Hank,” or when he relents to the pressure on the back of his head and Hank’s dick plunges into the slick pleasure of Connor’s mouth. 

The feel of his mouth is so human that it takes Hank a moment to figure out what feels off. Though his mouth is wet, Connor’s spit more resembles the texture of lubricant; and though he’s not cold, his mouth is much cooler than any human’s would be. The strangeness does nothing to dull the pleasure, though, and Hank clenches his fist in Connor’s hair, admiring the way the silky strands tangle in his fingers. 

Connor won’t stop looking at him with those gorgeous eyes, all wide like the mouth stretched around his dick. Connor’s hands dig into the soft flesh of his hips, so tight it starts to hurt. Not that Hank can even begin to give a shit when that tongue slides up the length of him. Since Connor doesn’t breathe, the suction he would normally expect to come along with that slow drag of Connor’s lips off his dick isn’t there, but Connor more than makes up for it with the enthusiastic use of his tongue. 

“Where the fuck did you learn to do that?” Hank groans as Connor plunges back down—his nose burying itself in the thatch of Hank’s greying curls—and Hank’s dick slams into the back of Connor’s throat. Hank considers himself  _ proportionate  _ to his height, which usually meant his partners had to use at least one hand while sucking him off. Connor has the audacity to  _ wink  _ at him, a little smile teasing the corners of his mouth,  

“ _ Fuck!”  _ Hank curses when Connor pulls off him, his dick sliding out of that perfect mouth. He lets go of Connor’s hair, just in case he forgets himself and tries to do something less than gentlemanly. 

“Apologies. I worried if I continued that this may end too soon for me,” Connor explains, looking down at his knees. Hank snorts, only a little offended. Connor glances up at that and his eyebrows raise. “Oh, I was speaking of my own stamina, not yours.”  

“I wasn’t touching you, or your…” Hank gestures down in the general area of Connor’s crotch. 

Connor smiles with bland amusement. “My mouth is an extremely specialized and sensitive piece of equipment, and while sexual function wasn’t it’s design, when overloaded like this, it seems to react similarly to a human erogenous zone.” Connor takes Hank’s wrist in his hand and guides Hank’s fingers to his lips. “After all, it was only intended for this kind of touch.” 

Connor’s tongue slips past his lips, licking the pads of Hank’s fingers. He doesn’t know for sure, but he thinks Connor might be tracing the lines of his fingerprints with that clever little tongue of his, at least that’s what he’s doing before he takes Hank’s fore and middle fingers into his mouth. His teeth scrape over his knuckles, his tongue sliding between his fingers before his lips close around them. 

Hank presses his lips together to quiet his moan. He can’t tear his eyes away. He’s not sure how the sight of his spit-slicked fingers sliding in and out of Connor’s perfect, pink mouth, could be just as hot as his dick, but he’s barely able to prevent himself from shoving them deeper. 

“What do you want from me, Connor?” he pleads, his voice coming out choked and desperate. 

Connor pulls back, but keeps a hand on Hank’s wrist so his fingers are still on Connor’s lips as he says, “I want to do whatever you want me to. I want you to show me how you want me.” 

Hank swallows, or he tries to, but his mouth is so dry. Hank twists the wrist in Connor’s grasp so he can take Connor’s hand in his own and pull him back into his lap. It’s worse now that his dick is out. The pressure of Connor’s thighs is almost unbearable. Hank grinds up into him, his hands on Connor’s hips to hold him in place. 

“Take your shirt off,” Hank tells him, hands slipping up Connor’s sides to untuck the rumpled edges of his normally perfect button-down. 

Connor obliges, and one button after another, his shirt opens and then slides off his shoulders, falling to the ground between Hank’s legs. Connor is not shy; he looks down at Hank with a small smile, his arms coming to drape over Hank’s shoulders. Hank is sure his own expression is nothing short of awe-struck. Connor’s lean chest is perfectly smooth but for the few freckles and moles Kamski decided to give him for the sake of realism. Perfect imperfections. He’s also hairless, his skin soft and smooth under Hank’s palms. Hank slides his hands over Connor’s chest, tracing the lines of his pectorals; his fingers brush over Connor’s rosy-pink nipples, just as soft as the rest of him. His skin has a creamy quality to it with hints of pink and red—where the skin is thinnest there are traces of blue veins, false, designed, stunning—whoever did the colours on him outdid themselves. 

Connor leans back in to kiss him again, tongue sliding across Hank’s lips. Hank silently swears he’ll never chastise Connor for his oral fixation ever again. As it turns out, the kiss is a distraction; Connor grabs the back of Hank’s shirt and tugs it up until Hank is forced to raise his arms and allow Connor to remove it. Hank crosses his arms over his chest, though he can’t do anything to hide his gut, especially not sitting like this.

Connor takes Hank’s arms and pulls them apart, placing his hands on Connor’s hips. Connor bends down and drags his tongue across Hank’s chest, finding a nipple and teasing it between his teeth. Connor’s free hand cups the other side of Hank’s chest and squeezes. 

“Your body is incredible, Hank,” Connor murmurs into his chest. 

Hank slides his hands around until he reaches Connor’s fly, fumbling with the button. Connor comes to his rescue and unzips them himself, though it’s Hank who tugs them down to his knees. For a moment he’s frozen, unable to do anything but stare. Then Connor shifts and reaches for his pants, begins to tug them back up, and Hank has to grab his wrist to stop him. 

“I apologize, I should have known you wouldn’t be expecting—” 

“Stop,” Hank tells him. “It’s okay.” 

Hank has never seen Connor embarrassed before. He didn’t even think it was possible to embarrass someone so shameless. But Connor won’t look him in the eye now, his eyes fixed on Hank’s chest, his body rigid, hands still grasping his pants like he would pull them up again the second Hank let go of his wrist. 

“I understand the… other model had features that I do not.” 

It’s Hank’s turn to take Connor’s face between his hands, to tilt his gaze so their eyes can meet. It’s Hank’s turn to pull him in for a kiss, and then another, kissing him deeper each time. He slides his hand between Connor’s legs. It doesn’t feel any different from the rest of his skin--the flesh is smooth and bare, doll-like. 

“Does that do anything for you?” Hank asks. 

Connor pauses, his LED spinning yellow for a moment before pulsing blue again. “It feels good because you’re touching me, but no more so than anywhere else on my body.” 

Hank shrugs, removing his hand from Connor’s groin and putting it back on his hip. “Figures,” Hank grumbles, though he’s more embarrassed than irritated. 

Connor leans down again to kiss Hank, hard. “I meant what I said,” he murmurs into Hank’s mouth, “I want you to do what you like. That’s what will feel good to me.” 

Fuck, if that isn’t the hottest thing anyone’s ever said to him, he doesn’t know what is. He may be biased, though, since he’s absolutely sure Connor is the most gorgeous thing he’s ever had whisper filthy things to him with lips pressed against his skin. 

“C’mere.” Hank takes Connor by the hips, maneuvering him until he can bend Connor over the arm of the couch. Connor’s head snaps around to glance at Hank over his shoulder. 

“I don’t have—“ 

Hank slides a hand down Connor’s side, “I know.” Hank presses a kiss to Connor’s hip before shifting himself to his knees to press his dick against Connor’s ass. 

The afternoon sun coming through the blinds paints gold and shadow stripes across Connor’s back; it makes his dark hair shine. Connor’s forehead rests on the hands braced against the couch’s armrest, accentuating the line of his neck. Hank reaches out to touch, starting at the soft hairs at the nape of his neck and fanning out, hands spreading over Connor’s shoulders, his sides. 

Hank has never been so hard in his life. Just grinding isn’t going to be enough and he can’t bear much more of this teasing. He takes himself in hand and slides his dick between the softness of Connor’s pale thighs. Connor tightens them without being asked, squeezing him inside surprisingly malleable flesh. 

Since Connor doesn’t sweat, his dick slides smoothly between those gorgeous, perfect, thighs. Hank thrusts slowly, grabbing Connor’s hip with one hand and runs the other up the length of Connor’s spine, feeling him. 

“Oh!” Connor chirps, his head jerking upright. 

“What?” Hank freezes, fingers pressed in a divot between two of Connor’s vertebrae. 

“There,” says Connor. “I think… do you mind if I try something?” 

“By all means.” 

The skin around Hank’s hand melts away, leaving a white circle about three inches around under his index finger. Connor lets out a strange, aborted noise, like he tried to speak but was cut off. 

“Connor?” Hank asks, pulling his hand back. “Is everything—“ 

“Touch me again,” Connor pleads, pushing back against Hank and squeezing his thighs. Hank nearly doubles over at the spike of pleasure, a guttural moan ripped from his throat. 

This time when Hank’s fingers press against that indent, he touches hard plastic. He rubs experimentally and Connor lets out another aborted half-sound. A moan for someone with no vocal cords, just a voice box and commands being shorted by… something. A circle of plastic slides back under the chassis, revealing the port Hank had been teasing. 

“What is it?” Hank asks, running his forefinger around the rim. 

“If I’m ever offline, it allows Cyberlife to connect with me directly without taking me apart.” Connor arches his back, pushing Hank’s finger harder against the edge. 

“Does it… feel good?” The port is big enough that Hank could easily fit his forefinger. 

“Yes.” Connor nods emphatically. 

It’s hardly the weirdest thing Hank has ever done during sex, and the idea of making Connor feel half as good as he feels right now nearly has him doubled over again. He slides his finger inside. The reaction is instant. Connor jerks against him, thighs clamping around him and back pressing up so Hank’s finger plunges deeper. 

“Ha— Han— Hank,” Connor finally manages to get out in the most gorgeous pleading tone Hank’s ever heard in his life. Hank presses down inside, pushing against a small metal nub tangled surrounded by fine wires. Running his finger over them has Connor making those sweet little half-noises and slamming himself back against Hank. He’s not going to last long with the way Connor is clenching around him, or the way his skin slides velvet smooth around Hank’s dick. 

Hank takes his free hand from Connor’s hip and reaches forward to place his palm over Connor’s mouth. Remembering Connor’s comments about his tongue, Hank slides two fingers inside and presses down on it, rubbing against the slick muscle. Connor eagerly licks at his fingers, closing his mouth around them. It’s enough. It’s more than enough. 

“Connor, I’m...“

“Mhmn,” Connor replies, which Hank takes to be assent. He comes hard, slicking Connor’s thighs and probably staining the couch. 

He pushes harder with his fingers into Connor’s port as Connor laps at his fingers until suddenly he doesn’t. Connor goes still, and then, without warning, his limbs buckle under him and he collapses on the couch. 

“Connor?” Hank asks, pulling back and flipping Connor over. “Connor!” 

His dark eyes are glassy and his mouth slack, his LED is a frantic yellow strobe. Panic rises in Hank’s throat. He takes Connor’s face in his hands, running thumbs over the too-still face. 

“Come on, Connor, don’t do this to—“ 

Connor sits upright and nearly brains Hank with his forehead, head jerking around until he manages to rest his eyes on Hank. His mouth splits into a grin. 

“Jesus, Connor,” Hank breathes a sigh of relief. “Are you okay?” 

“I think the word you might use here would be ‘abso-fucking-lutely’,” says Connor, leaning forward to kiss Hank on the corner of his mouth. Hank kisses him back, relief still making his head swim. Connor’s arms wrap around his neck and hold him tight. 

“So, what, was that like… an android orgasm?” 

“I think so,” says Connor, untangling himself from Hank. He pushes his pants off the rest of the way, and Hank notices with some chagrin that there are wet stains on the back of them. 

“Shit, we should uh, get you cleaned up,” says Hank, standing up and looking for something to clean the mess. He finds his tee-shirt on the floor and offers it to Connor who uses it to wipe himself and then the couch. 

Sumo trots around the corner, nails clicking on the linoleum, as Connor shakes his head. “We should clean the couch properly, or it will stain.” 

Hank, who had tucked himself back into his briefs but shucked his jeans, snorts and shrugs. “It’s an old couch. I’ll just flip the cushions.” 

“That’s not—“ 

Hank places a finger over Connor’s lips before wrapping an arm around his bare middle. He relishes the feel of that smooth skin against his own, relishes the fact that he’s even allowed to do this at all. 

“Not important,” says Hank. 

Connor shifts in his arms and Hank immediately lets go, a rush of embarrassment coming over him. Maybe he’s misinterpreted. It’s not like he’s really got anything to offer someone like Connor. He steps back, crossing arms over his still bare chest. He needs to find a shirt, cover up. 

“I’m just gonna…” He starts towards his bedroom, but hardly makes it two steps before Connor catches his arm and turns him around. Before another word is out of his mouth, Connor is kissing him again, arms wrapping around his body and  _ holding.  _ Connor rests his forehead on Hank’s shoulder, mouth pressed against his collar bone. 

“Thank you,” says Connor, so quiet it’s almost a whisper, like he’s not sure he even wants Hank to hear it. 

Hank lets out a slow breath, the tension leaking from his shoulders. There’s so much they should talk about, his ex-wife was always telling him he liked to avoid everything important until it was too late. But right now… right now… 

“I’m under the impression that most men enjoy rest after sexual activity. It may be prudent to find somewhere larger than your couch to lay down,” says Connor, a little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

“Eh, I’ve slept on the couch before.” Hank shrugs, running a hand up Connor’s back until he can tangle his fingers in that dark, silky hair. 

“But if you sleep on the couch, I can’t join you.” 

_ That _ gets Hank’s attention. “You need a power nap?”

“No,” Connor replies. “I just want to be near you.” 

Only Connor could say something so disgustingly romantic with such sincerity, and not feel a shred of embarrassment. Hank licks his dry lips. 

“Okay,” he says. “Alright. Just, ah, wake me up for dinner.” 

“I will not let your rest exceed ninety minutes,” Connor says. His LED flashes yellow for a moment, probably setting a fucking timer. 

Before he can let himself overthink this, Hank takes Connor by the hand and takes him to bed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Let me know what you thought <3


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